


dirty dirty

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, The Magnus Archives Season 4, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Humiliation, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: Martin has always been good at making the best of things.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 19
Kudos: 126





	dirty dirty

* * *

It’s almost pleasant to work at the Institute now that Elias is in jail.

Sure, it’s maybe not Martin’s dream job, and, yeah, there’s still the whole we’re-trapped-here-and-if-he-dies-we-die-too thing to contend with. But Martin’s always been good at making the best of things, and he can say for sure that it’s started to feel a lot more like a normal job and a lot less like a hostage situation since Peter Lukas took the reins. For the first time, he can just show up and do his work and chat with Basira while they wait for the kettle to boil, secure in the knowledge that he won’t be attacked by hostile worms or have some awful truth dredged up raw and bleeding from the depths of his psyche before the end of the day. As far as he’s concerned, that’s a major point in Peter’s favour.

Things aren’t _all_ rosy, of course. For one, Jon is gone. He’s been in a coma since the Unknowing, which is at least preferable to Daisy and Tim’s situation, but still frankly dismal as far as Martin is concerned. He’s made a habit of visiting him once, twice, even three times a week, although the nurses look at him with exasperation and mutter that he’s wasting his time. The doctors are all baffled. He’s fine—he _should_ be fine—but he just won’t wake up. There’s no guarantee that Jon can hear him, but Martin talks to him anyway.

He visited him last night, after working late, so there’s no point in going back today. It’s a little sad, Martin muses with a wince, that visiting his comatose boss is the highlight of his social life at the moment; he has no other plans, tonight or ever. It was always Tim who organised Archive drinks and karaoke nights, the occasional trip to a board-game café or some interesting food festival. He’d always wanted to take them on a kayaking trip—all of them, Sasha, Martin, Daisy, Melanie (Basira had categorically refused), even Jon if he could be talked into it.

But Tim is gone now, and so are Sasha and Daisy. These days Melanie thinks of nothing but revenge. Without Daisy, Basira has retreated into herself. And if Martin could talk Jon into anything right now, it would just be to open his eyes.

He sighs. It’s a struggle every day not to get bogged-down in the memories, still too fresh to look away from. Instead of letting himself wallow, he reaches for the nearest file folder and clicks around on his computer, half-heartedly beginning the arduous process of cross-referencing a statement.

As usual, it sends him into a torpor. But after an hour or two there’s a change in the air, a thickening, accompanied by a crackling sound like TV static; the temperature in Martin’s office plummets. He assumes something has gone wrong with the basement’s central heating—until Peter Lukas speaks.

‘Hello, Martin,’ he says.

Martin nearly jumps out of his chair. ‘Mr Lukas. Oh, God, you startled me.’ He frowns: he hadn’t heard the door open. ‘I, ah, what—what can I do for you? Did we have a meeting?’ He flips open his diary and pages frantically through it, suddenly certain he’s missed an appointment.

Peter chuckles. ‘No, you’re all right. I just thought I’d drop in and…ask you a question or two.’

‘A question. About—work? About…life under new management? Do we—do we have our reviews coming up already?’ Martin knows he’s babbling. For all that he’s a relatively great boss, at least compared to Elias, Peter alarms him.

‘Not quite.’ Peter advances, planting his hands on Martin’s desk, looming over him. His forearms are thick, hairy, heavily tattooed. On his left hand—Martin doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed this before—is a wedding ring, old, tarnished gold. ‘I just wanted to ask how long you’d been waiting.’

Martin blinks. ‘How long I’d been…? I thought we didn’t have anything booked—’

‘Not for me,’ says Peter. ‘For him. For the Archivist.’

Martin’s heart plummets. He thinks of last night’s visit, which had been sadder than most, somehow. He sat at Jon’s bedside for a long, long time, gripping a fresh bouquet of purple hollyhocks (the nurses had already got rid of last week’s sunflowers), watching the slow rise and fall of Jon’s too-thin chest. He wore a deep frown even in a coma. Martin wanted to reach over and smooth it out.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Martin says, fighting to keep his voice casual. ‘He’s been…out…for a little over two months now, as you know. The doctors don’t really know what to expect. I’ll— _we’ll_ —just keep waiting as long as it takes.’

Peter is far too close to him already. He leans closer still, close enough that Martin swears he can smell the sea on his weathered skin, and says, ‘We both know that’s not what I mean.’ He lifts one hand and with a thick, calloused finger traces Martin’s jaw. ‘How long have you been waiting for him to notice you?’

‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Martin stutters. ‘Jon knows who I am. We’re—we’re friends.’

Peter closes his fingers around Martin’s chin and forces his face up to look him in the eyes. Peter’s eyes are a deep gray-blue, like a cold ocean, fathomless. Looking into them gives Martin a chill. ‘Don’t play coy with me,’ says Peter, his voice affable as ever. ‘You want him. You want him _desperately._ And he left you behind.’

A helpless sound escapes Martin’s lips. ‘What do you want?’ he says, fighting a sudden rising tide of shame, fear, arousal. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Why, Martin,’ says Peter. ‘I want to help.’

‘Help…how?’

‘Oh, I think you know how.’ And Peter kisses him, cold and forceful.

Martin gasps in shock, and then before he knows what he’s doing he submits to the kiss, a sick gratitude overwhelming him. Peter’s tongue probes deep into his mouth, an intrusion that Martin cannot halt. He feels used; he cannot bring himself to mind.

‘Peter,’ he gasps, when they break apart. ‘What are you—why—’

‘I like you, Martin,’ Peter says with a shrug. ‘You don’t know how appealing you are. The _wanting_ just pours off you; didn’t you know?’ His smile curls. ‘You really are a lonely, lonely boy.’

Martin moans when Peter kisses him again. He is still sitting in his desk chair, pinned by Peter’s stature and the force of his kiss. He can feel himself growing hard. He wants to resist—this is wildly inappropriate on _so_ many levels, and in some prim, foolish way Martin feels that this is _wrong,_ because it isn’t _Jon,_ not that Jon has ever cared a whit for whose tongue is down Martin Blackwood’s throat.

But he can’t resist; and so he doesn’t.

Peter breaks the kiss again, biting Martin’s lower lip hard, as if for good measure. ‘Stand up,’ he orders. ‘Come here.’

Martin obeys.

‘Good. Now take off your trousers and brace yourself on the desk. I’m going to fuck you.’

A shiver of desire runs through him at Peter’s tone, which brooks no argument. Martin steps unsteadily out of his jeans and boxers. His cock springs free, fully erect. He hangs his head, staring at the mess of papers, file folders, reference books strewn across his desk: he’s gotten careless, now that Jon isn’t here to _tsk_ over his disorganisation. He realises he is shaking.

He hears Peter unbuttoning his own trousers, and then the click of a bottle lid. The fact that Peter came prepared makes Martin feel slightly ill. Peter slicks his fingers. ‘I bet you won’t need much,’ he says, conversationally. ‘I bet you fuck yourself every night thinking of him, opening that sweet little arse with your fingers, pretending it’s his cock. Oh, yes,’ he says, sliding one finger inside him: Martin moans. ‘There we are. Can you take another? Two more? Of course you can.’

Peter’s fingers are broad and thick, and they feel enormous inside of Martin. Peter’s right—it makes his face flush just to think of it—he _does_ fuck himself on his fingers, he _does_ think of Jon, he _does_ shove his fist into his mouth to stifle a cry of his name when he comes. He hadn’t known it was so obvious, that his desires were written so plainly all over his body. Humiliation courses through him, going straight between his legs. Peter scissors his fingers inside him, working him open further, further, and Martin writhes against him.

His cock is trapped at a painful angle between his hips and the desk. He reaches down to shift it, gasping when his fingers make contact with the blood-hot skin. ‘Greedy, are we?’ Peter reprimands him. ‘You’ll touch yourself when I say you can. Hands off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Martin gasps. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll be a good boy and come with my cock inside you, or you won’t come at all. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes— _sir.’_

‘That’s better.’ Behind him, Peter shifts, and then Martin feels the blunt head of his cock nudging at his entrance. He tenses, breathing in through his nose, and then Peter enters him—ungently, and all at once. Martin cries out. He’s big, he’s _too_ big, he is splitting Martin open. Martin moans, and struggles, and thinks he’ll need to beg him to stop, it’s too much, he can’t take it—and then, all at once, he can.

He takes slow, cautious breaths, feeling Peter settle inside of him. He has a brief moment of clarity, of pleasure, even—feeling full, feeling taken—and then Peter starts to move.

He fucks Martin hard, setting a furious pace. Every thrust of his hips drives deep into Martin’s core, pounding at his prostate and bringing beads of fluid to the head of his cock. ‘You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?’ Peter asks him, his voice deadly. ‘I bet you sat here in your office all alone for years, imagining _Jon_ coming in here and bending you over your desk, making you beg for his pathetic little cock.’ Disdain drips from his every word: he almost sounds like Elias. ‘Did you touch yourself in here, thinking of it? Waiting for him to find you, crying and snivelling and wretched?’

Something inside of Martin curls into itself, small and ashamed. He _has_ touched himself at work, yes, on the bad days, the worst days; but never in here, never where anyone could see him, or hear him crying softly into his hands. One time he’d run into Jon, after, coming out of the bathroom, and the sight of him—in person, in the flesh—after having fantasised about him with abandon for nigh on fifteen minutes had made Martin want to shrivel up and die. The memory wrings guttural cries from his throat. ‘Please, Peter. _Please.’_

‘Listen to you,’ Peter growls. ‘Can’t keep your filthy mouth shut, that’s how much you want this. How much you need a fat cock inside you, fucking you to pieces. Is that what you need, you little slut?’

‘Yes,’ Martin chokes out, his eyes watering and spilling over. ‘Yes, please, I need it, Peter, I need your cock, I, I—’

‘Can your little Archivist give you this? Can he give you what you need?’

‘No,’ Martin sobs. ‘He doesn’t—he doesn’t want me—he won’t fuck me like this, like you do, Peter, _please—’_

He feels Peter’s low rumble of approval all throughout his body. For a terrifying second Martin thinks he hears footsteps in the hallway outside, but no, he’s only imagining things; the curtain of static that had heralded Peter’s arrival is blanketing them now, soundproofing the room. No one can hear him. No one can see them. He ought to be relieved, but a sudden vision of Jon coming back and coming to see him—finding him like this, bent double over his own desk, skewered on Peter Lukas’ cock—pulls a high whine of desperate lust from between his lips. He _wants_ Jon, he _needs_ Jon, he wants Jon to see what he’s done to him, the state to which he has reduced him.

It’s not a fair thought, of course it isn’t—Jon _isn’t,_ Jon _doesn’t,_ and even if he did it wouldn’t be with Martin—but _God,_ it’s an erotic one. Jon, who Sees, who Knows: is he privy to this now? Has Martin’s desperation, Peter’s cruel invocation of Jon’s name, penetrated his dreaming state? Can he See them now?

Imagining Jon watching him nearly makes Martin’s knees give out. He exhales a shuddering breath, straining with all his might to resist reaching for his cock.

‘You’re thinking of him,’ Peter whispers, coarse and hot against Martin’s neck. ‘Stupid boy; can’t stop pining for your Archivist even with my cock inside you. I ought to fuck his name right out of your head. Shall I do that?’

‘Yes,’ says Martin weakly.

‘I can’t hear you.’

 _‘Yes.’_ Tears are beginning to blur Martin’s vision; he is so hard it’s painful, and Peter won’t touch him. ‘Fuck me. Please. I’ll—I’ll forget all about him.’

‘Good boy.’ To show he’s pleased, Peter wraps one thick hand around Martin’s cock and begins to touch him with fast, rough strokes that make Martin cry out. Peter snaps his hips fiercely, his pace never flagging, and Martin knows that he’s close to coming, he’s going to come, here, all over his own desk, with Peter Lukas inside him and Jon’s name in his mouth.

But Martin has promised to be good. So _‘Peter,’_ he gasps, as his body convulses. A wretched pleasure tears through him, white and blinding. _‘Peter,_ yes, fuck me, don’t stop, don’t stop, _please—’_

 _Jon,_ he thinks, _Jon, Jon, Jon._

Peter’s hand tightens around Martin’s cock as he, too, comes, spilling himself inside of Martin with a deep grunt. Martin sucks in air through his teeth, tears of overstimulation springing to his eyes, and waits for Peter to pull out. It hurts, and Peter does not apologise.

‘You _were_ good for me, weren’t you,’ says Peter lazily, as Martin fumbles for tissues from the box on his desk and cleans himself up, his cheeks burning. ‘So pliable, and so very…enthusiastic.’ He gives a short laugh, and then says, light and cruel, ‘But it didn’t work, did it?’

‘What?’ Martin is exhausted. He wants desperately to get dressed again and sink into his desk chair and forget this ever happened—until the next time he’s getting himself off, that is. That he already knows he’ll be wanking to this for weeks only makes him feel worse.

‘You still want him,’ Peter says. ‘I suppose that means we’ll have to do this again, won’t we, Martin?’

Martin cannot look him in the eyes. He hates himself for saying, very softly, ‘I guess so.’

‘Excellent,’ says Peter, beaming. ‘I must say, Martin—try not to get too _social_ in the meantime, hm? That loneliness of yours is just…exquisite. Really enhances the whole experience. But don’t worry: chatting away to your Archivist doesn’t count. I think that makes you feel even _more_ alone in the world, doesn’t it? No small feat, in my book.’ He gives him an exaggerated wink that makes Martin’s stomach turn.

‘You should go now,’ says Martin, with all the bravado he can muster. ‘I have…work to do.’

‘No need to get stroppy with your new boss. I’m sure you’ve all sorts of _important_ things to get through before the end of the day. But remember, Martin’—here his voice grows cold again, a bone-deep cold, the cold of the winter ocean as it closes over your head—‘your time is mine, now. _You_ are mine: you answer to me. And I’ll do what I like with you, whenever I like. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Martin can’t deny the primal thrill that runs through him at Peter’s words. To be possessed in this way; to know that he might be subject to any whim of Peter’s, at any time; to have no say in his own pleasure—this is strangely freeing. He does not have to long for someone who will never return his affections. He does not have to wallow in self-pity and shame and the constant ache of not being touched. No thought, no desire, no impulse is required from Martin himself; he will be used at Peter’s discretion, and that is that.

 _Maybe this is what I really need,_ he thinks. Not Jon, not the myriad impossible versions of a life together that Martin has crafted in his head. Instead, simply giving himself, letting his body and his loneliness be taken. Already it feels as though a weight has been lifted. _Maybe I won’t even need to think of him, next time._

‘All right, then,’ says Peter. ‘I’ve kept you from your labours long enough.’ His voice has returned to its playful lightness, which Martin finds almost more sinister than his cold, forbidding tone. ‘I’m sure I’ll be seeing you very soon, Martin.’

‘I’m here whenever you need me, Mr Lukas,’ Martin replies wearily.

‘Oh, I know you are.’

The door remains closed. The static intensifies, so loud it hurts Martin’s ears, and then silence falls sharply. Peter is gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

Only when he is sure he is alone can Martin breathe again. Now that Peter is gone, he begins to doubt his prior thoughts— _this can’t be right, this can’t be healthy; do I need to give up on Jon just to play Peter’s sick games?—_ but then the memory of his orgasm overtakes him, the feeling of being fucked so hard that his mind went blank, feeling the absence of solitude even for a moment. That feeling is powerful, and having tasted it once, Martin doesn’t think he’ll be able to give it up easily.

He exhales a long sigh. He turns back to his monitor, staring blankly at the screen, realising only after a moment that he has to unlock his computer again. He picks up the statement page with a limp, tired hand and it takes several seconds before his brain can parse the words. There are notes in the margins, some in Gertrude’s brisk cursive, some in Jon’s sharp-edged hand: the latter stick out to Martin as if written in neon, searing themselves into his vision. _Jon. Jon. Jon._

Martin sets the page down and buries his face in his hands. He’ll go back and visit him tonight, never mind that he was just there yesterday. He needs to see him. He needs to remind himself of the man he loves (his face warms as he thinks the words), whom he’s loved for years now, and whom he’ll keep on loving for as long as he can, regardless of whether his feelings are ever reciprocated. Jon would never use him the way Peter has.

Jon would never touch him that way, either.

And if talking to Jon makes Martin lonelier still, and if that loneliness will be fucked out of him the next time Peter comes to visit, fucked out of him until he’s sobbing Peter’s name _(Peter’s_ name, and only his)—well, would that really be so terrible?

Martin has always been good at making the best of things.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Dirty Dirty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZDG3BoNKWY) by Charlotte Cardin. Find me on my brand-new TMA Twitter @saintmontague.


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